


a cool drink in a dry land

by fannishliss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Purgatory, Women of Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:46:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  It’s thirsty work, crossing the dry land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a cool drink in a dry land

**title:  a cool drink in a dry land**  
author: [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/)**fannishliss**    
rating: gen  
pairing: none  
length: 1178 words  
spoilers: s5 - s6, vaguely

note: this is for [](http://glassyskies.livejournal.com/profile)[**glassyskies**](http://glassyskies.livejournal.com/) , who wanted something with Anna and Jo, whiskey and ice cream. Now with Bonus Ellen!  Bechdel compliance, yay. 

summary:  It’s thirsty work, crossing the dry land.

 

  
From outside, the place looks deserted.  Old furniture and junk is piled up on the porch.  None of the lights are on.  The sign in the door says OPEN, but it’s old and yellowed and hanging crooked. 

The doorknob turns though, and the door opens.  The hinges sing, a long squeaking sigh as the door swings wide.

Inside, light falls hazy at an afternoon angle.  Chairs, tables, a long bar.  No one’s around. 

She could really use a drink. Whiskey.  Two fingers, on ice.  She can almost feel the  chill and the burn as the whiskey warms her up and cools her feverish brain.

“Any one here?” she calls out.  Her boots ring on the hardwood floor.

She listens intently for any signs of life, but hears no one.

“Hello?”

Maybe she can just go around the bar and pour one for herself.  The bottles on the wall aren’t fancy, but the place is well stocked.

She bends down to pick out a glass when she feels the shotgun in the small of her back.

“Hello?”  she says.  “I called out, but nobody answered.”

“We’re a little bit careful who we show ourselves to.”  It’s a young woman’s voice, hard and cautious.  “Turn around, slowly.” 

She turns.  The girl holding the gun looks about her own age, long blonde hair, smart brown eyes.  She knows what she’s doing with the gun. The girl’s eyes widen with surprise as she she turns to show her face.

“Anna!”  the girl exclaims, takes one step back, and tightens her grip on the gun. 

A sparkler goes off in Anna’s head.  “Yes, I’m Anna,”  she says.  Anna:  the name sets off an effervescence, tiny fizzing pops of recognition rising up through her mind.

“What are you doing here?  How did you find us?”  The girl is angry now, maybe a little afraid.

“I was thirsty.  I was hoping for a whiskey.”

“A whiskey?”  The girl laughs incredulously, but at Anna’s confusion she stops laughing.  “Do you know who I am?”

“No,”  Anna says. 

Her brown eyes cloud with consternation.  “Mom!” she suddenly yells, loud.  Anna’s shocked by the noise, quakes, her heart pounding.  Why should a girl yelling for her mother make her so afraid? She doesn’t understand.

“Who are you?” Anna whispers. 

“Wait,” the girl snaps, and after a minute her mother appears. 

“Mom, look who’s here.”

Anna turns to see an older woman, same blonde hair, same capable hands, same considering look around the eyes. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,”  the mother says. 

“Or whatever,” the girl murmurs.

“Anna Milton?”  the mother says.

The sparks of rightness fizzle out this time.  “No, that’s not right.  I’m not Anna Milton.  Anna... I used to be... “ Anna trails off again.  A huge sadness floods through her, washing away any illusion of familiarity, leaving only emptiness.  “There used to be more, didn’t there? Please,” she chokes out, “who am I?  Why am I here?”

The mother moves closer to the girl.  “We got a sitution here, girl,” the mother says.

“I know it, but what do we do about it?” the girl hisses. 

“She needs to remember, but slow, easy like,” the mother says.  The anxious urge to remember builds in Anna.  She rifles her thoughts, searching for memories for who she is, how she came here. All she uncovers are darknesses, silences. Anxiety takes root, and anger.  She must have answers!

Assessing her through narrowed eyes, the girl says, “You look hungry.  What’s your favorite thing?”

“What?” Anna gasps, distracted from her fevered digging through the dust and empty spaces of her mind.

“Your very favorite thing.  On the house!  You want, uh, chocolate?”  the girl says brightly. 

The mother is also watching, hawklike.

Anna slowly shakes her head, tries to relax her hands from grabbing at her forehead. “Everybody likes chocolate.  But it makes me sneeze.  I like ice cream.  Strawberry ice cream.”  The soothing coolness numbing her tongue, flowing down her throat, thick and sweet. 

“We have that!  Just you hold still,”  the girl says, and handing the shotgun over to her mother, she hoists herself up and over the bar, ducks down, and instantly pulls out a perfect bowl of strawberry icecream, drizzled lightly with hot fudge, a sterling silver spoon sticking out of the side.

Anna takes the ice cream, slips a bite into her mouth as the two women watch.  The silver spoon is cold against her lips.  The celebrations of her childhood had always ended this way, the good silver, the crystal bowl, the sweet, delicious, homemade icecream, and the hot fudge her mother lovingly made sure was enough, but not too much. Her mom, her dad, they had loved her. Family.  Love. That’s what it’s all about.

As the strawberry ice cream melts in her mouth and spoon slowly warms against her tongue, the choking dust is swept away.  She is Anna, and so much more.

“I remember,” she says.

Jo Harvelle looks back at her cautiously.  “You do?”

“Yes. It’s okay. I’m okay now.” 

Jo and Ellen are watching her nervously, like they’re wondering if she might explode, wondering how much she would take out with her if she melted down. They peer suspiciously at her, Hunters to the core.

“This is Purgatory,” Anna says, feeling the contours of the gray land stretching around them.

Ellen and Jo trade looks.  “It ain’t Hell, and that’s something,”  Ellen says.

Anna feels outward, carefully, listening beyond the edges, frowning in concentration. “Static,” she says. “War. Heaven’s beseiged.  The ways aren’t clear.  Even the reapers are barred.  They’re bringing people here, ones who shouldn’t need to cross the burning sands.”  And something remade me, and sent me here, she doesn’t say out loud.

Anna opens her eyes. “You tried to leave, but there wasn’t anywhere to go?”

They nod, veiling the emptiness they’d seen with lowered lashes.

“You built this place-- you can make a way,” Anna says.  “A thousand ways, in all directions.”

“Why?”  Ellen asks.

“To gather in the lost from across the desert.  If the war comes here, we’ll be ready with an army!”

Jo’s eyes sparkle, brilliant.  “If it hurts those dicks who started the Apocalypse, I’m in!” 

Ellen laughs, bitter.  “I always looked forward to eternal rest.  Now here I am, still running a goddamn Hunters' roadhouse.”

“Now is your chance to make the paths straight, to rebuild the afterworld the way it should be.”

Ellen’s husband is in her eyes, and more old friends lost.  “Yes.  Let’s do it.”

Anna takes the hands of the mother and the daughter, and feels every aeon of her long, long life, but their hope lights something new in her, something that burns like whiskey, but soothing and sweet.  They’re ready, and they’ve got work to do.

 

 

 

 


End file.
